The opening of To The Other Side
Photo by Malcolm Browne
PROLOGUE – 1967
“He poured gasoline on himself and lit a match?” Chris Block dropped hard onto his dorm room chair. No!
“Fratelli of all people. I can’t believe it.” Kevin Scott leaned into Chris’s doorway, shoulders blocking entry. A letter in Kev’s hand.
“Like those monks in Vietnam?”
“I guess.”
“Sal Fratelli? The saint of Sixteenth Street?” Chris glanced out the window. Sal! A gangly kid with a shy smile and jug ears, clumsy in gym. His book buddy. Sal had sat in front of him in senior homeroom in high school and laughed at his lame jokes.
He remembered a photo he’d seen: a monk on fire in a Saigon street. When he closed his eyes, he saw blistering orange flames shooting from the top of Sal’s wavy-haired head – those jug ears, the skin on the back of his neck charred black.
Exactly what napalm did to people.
How long did Sal stay conscious? Did it …? He asked, “Do they know why?”
“Some anti-war crap. The letter said he left a note about murdered civilians, about a religious conscience. That’s nuts!”
“He might’ve … I don’t know … been trying to shock people. But jeez …”
Kevin’s voice softened. “You wouldn’t go that far, would you?”
“Of course not, asshole.” But how far would he go, to stop the war? What would it take?
“He poured gasoline on himself and lit a match?” Chris Block dropped hard onto his dorm room chair. No!
“Fratelli of all people. I can’t believe it.” Kevin Scott leaned into Chris’s doorway, shoulders blocking entry. A letter in Kev’s hand.
“Like those monks in Vietnam?”
“I guess.”
“Sal Fratelli? The saint of Sixteenth Street?” Chris glanced out the window. Sal! A gangly kid with a shy smile and jug ears, clumsy in gym. His book buddy. Sal had sat in front of him in senior homeroom in high school and laughed at his lame jokes.
He remembered a photo he’d seen: a monk on fire in a Saigon street. When he closed his eyes, he saw blistering orange flames shooting from the top of Sal’s wavy-haired head – those jug ears, the skin on the back of his neck charred black.
Exactly what napalm did to people.
How long did Sal stay conscious? Did it …? He asked, “Do they know why?”
“Some anti-war crap. The letter said he left a note about murdered civilians, about a religious conscience. That’s nuts!”
“He might’ve … I don’t know … been trying to shock people. But jeez …”
Kevin’s voice softened. “You wouldn’t go that far, would you?”
“Of course not, asshole.” But how far would he go, to stop the war? What would it take?
Kevin threw a head fake left. “I gotta go. They’re waiting down at the gym.”
“Run it off.” Kev, his oldest friend, had been a jock as long as he knew him. He stood and they hugged. He was nearly six feet tall, but two inches shorter than Kevin.
“Poor Sal!” Kevin said with a shudder, blue eyes drained of spark and full of tears. Kevin handed him the letter. “Here. He didn’t know much else about why Sal did it.”
Chris sat on his bed to read the letter from the friend who’d heard about Sal. Then he looked up, past the beige cinder block wall and his desk with its stack of school texts. His shelf of novels – his identity badge – suddenly seemed feeble.
“Run it off.” Kev, his oldest friend, had been a jock as long as he knew him. He stood and they hugged. He was nearly six feet tall, but two inches shorter than Kevin.
“Poor Sal!” Kevin said with a shudder, blue eyes drained of spark and full of tears. Kevin handed him the letter. “Here. He didn’t know much else about why Sal did it.”
Chris sat on his bed to read the letter from the friend who’d heard about Sal. Then he looked up, past the beige cinder block wall and his desk with its stack of school texts. His shelf of novels – his identity badge – suddenly seemed feeble.
Out his ground-floor window, in the barren quad between dorms, he saw white: snow on the frozen earth, oak branches laced with ice. A sexless figure lumbered past, hunkered against the frigid Boston nor’easter, hood and scarf nearly covering its face. A sheet hung from two trees and whipped in the wind, announcing an ALL-DORM DANCE FRIDAY NIGHT WITH LARRY’S LONERS, a Herman’s Hermits knock-off band. Someone had written over the N in “loners” with a large S, which bled in the snow.
Once, he’d run into Sal on the airless Lexington Avenue uptown, reading Camus, heading to their Catholic high school in Manhattan. Sal rarely spoke in class, so Chris hadn’t known he read beyond assignments. Sal seemed sheepish, his shy smile aimed at the subway floor, as if he’d been caught with porn. They agreed to trade The Rebel for The Fall after Sal finished. They continued to swap books, and for a few exciting weeks that felt almost a flirtation, he thought Sal could be his lost twin. No chance – Sal was so fiercely Catholic – but they stayed friends, though they lost touch when Sal went to college in D.C.
He glanced at his poster of Mick and Keith, singing into the same mike: a concert program. The air reeked of his roommate’s cigarettes. His normal dorm room, in his oh-so-normal college life. He couldn’t imagine the smell of burning flesh. Sal had chosen that instead of school, music, women, and a whole lot more. He must’ve felt solidarity, deep solidarity, with the Vietnamese bombing victims.
Chris looked over the notes he’d made for a paper on Resistance and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, but was too disturbed to think straight. Read Bonhoeffer’s Letters? No, they’d remind him of Sal: uncompromising. If only he could run and slam his body into other guys under backboards the way Kev did, to discharge the pain clogging his chest. He sat for two minutes, then pulled on his boots and layered up.
The piercing wind hit him right outside the door onto the quad. He tightened his scarf, pulled on his black beret. The sidewalk was slick – oops, very slick. He caught himself, then headed toward a neighborhood with pricey houses and expansive lawns. So different from Bay Ridge and utterly boring – perfect for the long walks he took to unwind from studying.
He could only see white – snow falling, snow piling up, what looked like the absence of color, but in the spectrum was really all-color. A few inches of snow remained from the last storm, but that had doubled already. Along fences and shrubs it humped like pallid marble.
The wind stung his eyes, even with his head down. On his usual route, he’d pass seven houses where he might see a dog. He was probably the only kid in the dorms with dog treats in his desk. On most walks he’d see one or two, but there’d be no playing with dogs today. He came to a steep downhill street – he should avoid it. At each corner he chose the most level road, even if it meant heading into the wind. He knew these roads, but as the driving snow thickened on roofs, windows, and porches, the houses blurred. Nothing was real except the white, the cold, and the searing image of Sal he wanted to forget, as if he were Ishmael clinging to a floating coffin after the leviathan stove the Pequod.
Maybe Sal was no longer Catholic; doubt had struck plenty of Chris’s friends. Sal might’ve moved toward Buddhism. But this? Some sacrifice was admirable and even necessary, but Sal wasn’t in a war. Though maybe Sal thought he was. Maybe they all really were.
Daylight was ebbing, the moist snow becoming gritty. Blasts of wind penetrated his coat. Snow soaked his jeans. His fingers and toes – where were they?
Once, he’d run into Sal on the airless Lexington Avenue uptown, reading Camus, heading to their Catholic high school in Manhattan. Sal rarely spoke in class, so Chris hadn’t known he read beyond assignments. Sal seemed sheepish, his shy smile aimed at the subway floor, as if he’d been caught with porn. They agreed to trade The Rebel for The Fall after Sal finished. They continued to swap books, and for a few exciting weeks that felt almost a flirtation, he thought Sal could be his lost twin. No chance – Sal was so fiercely Catholic – but they stayed friends, though they lost touch when Sal went to college in D.C.
He glanced at his poster of Mick and Keith, singing into the same mike: a concert program. The air reeked of his roommate’s cigarettes. His normal dorm room, in his oh-so-normal college life. He couldn’t imagine the smell of burning flesh. Sal had chosen that instead of school, music, women, and a whole lot more. He must’ve felt solidarity, deep solidarity, with the Vietnamese bombing victims.
Chris looked over the notes he’d made for a paper on Resistance and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, but was too disturbed to think straight. Read Bonhoeffer’s Letters? No, they’d remind him of Sal: uncompromising. If only he could run and slam his body into other guys under backboards the way Kev did, to discharge the pain clogging his chest. He sat for two minutes, then pulled on his boots and layered up.
The piercing wind hit him right outside the door onto the quad. He tightened his scarf, pulled on his black beret. The sidewalk was slick – oops, very slick. He caught himself, then headed toward a neighborhood with pricey houses and expansive lawns. So different from Bay Ridge and utterly boring – perfect for the long walks he took to unwind from studying.
He could only see white – snow falling, snow piling up, what looked like the absence of color, but in the spectrum was really all-color. A few inches of snow remained from the last storm, but that had doubled already. Along fences and shrubs it humped like pallid marble.
The wind stung his eyes, even with his head down. On his usual route, he’d pass seven houses where he might see a dog. He was probably the only kid in the dorms with dog treats in his desk. On most walks he’d see one or two, but there’d be no playing with dogs today. He came to a steep downhill street – he should avoid it. At each corner he chose the most level road, even if it meant heading into the wind. He knew these roads, but as the driving snow thickened on roofs, windows, and porches, the houses blurred. Nothing was real except the white, the cold, and the searing image of Sal he wanted to forget, as if he were Ishmael clinging to a floating coffin after the leviathan stove the Pequod.
Maybe Sal was no longer Catholic; doubt had struck plenty of Chris’s friends. Sal might’ve moved toward Buddhism. But this? Some sacrifice was admirable and even necessary, but Sal wasn’t in a war. Though maybe Sal thought he was. Maybe they all really were.
Daylight was ebbing, the moist snow becoming gritty. Blasts of wind penetrated his coat. Snow soaked his jeans. His fingers and toes – where were they?
Vietnam Veterans Against the War
He had to keep walking. It felt right, to walk through the storm, like some weird antidote to the image of burning. Except it didn’t do Sal any good, and it didn’t do him any good. He’d wanted the storm to freeze his feelings, but instead the unremitting white took everything else away, leaving only his pain for Sal. And Sal’s challenge.
What had he done to stop the war? Little beyond talk, or blending in with groups of people marching.
He almost laughed: his moral compass was as screwed up as his geographic one. This was absurd. He was somewhere in fancy suburbs near his college, home to rich people who shared nothing of his world, except big dogs. But he didn’t know which street he was on or how to get out. All he could see was the ghastly white snow.
He had to keep walking. Eventually he’d find his way home. He just didn’t know how. The cold stung so much it nearly burned, but it was nothing, nothing like what Sal had felt. Somehow Sal’s spirit was with him, battling through the blizzard. The wailing wind blew and snow flew horizontal and he walked and walked. It would be a long trudge through the storm.
What had he done to stop the war? Little beyond talk, or blending in with groups of people marching.
He almost laughed: his moral compass was as screwed up as his geographic one. This was absurd. He was somewhere in fancy suburbs near his college, home to rich people who shared nothing of his world, except big dogs. But he didn’t know which street he was on or how to get out. All he could see was the ghastly white snow.
He had to keep walking. Eventually he’d find his way home. He just didn’t know how. The cold stung so much it nearly burned, but it was nothing, nothing like what Sal had felt. Somehow Sal’s spirit was with him, battling through the blizzard. The wailing wind blew and snow flew horizontal and he walked and walked. It would be a long trudge through the storm.
